“Oh,” I manage, side-eyeing the men. The one with his hand on me is stocky and broad, at least twice my weight. His friend is larger still. “No. Haven’t seen any girl.”

Stocky Loyalist’s eyes narrow as he squints beneath the hood of my stolen garb. I probably stink of the corpse wagon, but maybe that helps my lie. My hair is hidden. Dust is probably stuck to my cheeks from my ride on the horse. I have the rifle slung across my back still, and the Loyalist uniform isn’t so much of a uniform but a mismatched set of black clothing. It could be convincing enough. The pub owner didn’t say anything, after all.

“You should get back to your post,” the Loyalist finally says. I nearly gasp when he lets go of my shoulder. “There’s an order coming from Bedrock.”

“Sure. Nearly done here.”

Stocky Loyalist grunts to his partner, and they head out. My head sags forward, relieved.

There’s another slice of light as the men leave the pub. But then, footsteps, right on top of me. They’ve come back. They know.

Fingers clamp around my wrist, and I spring from my seat, clenching my free hand into a fist and swinging it at the Loyalist with all the strength I can muster. I crack him square between the eyes, and he doubles over, swearing. I twist, looking for the second man, but there isn’t one.

“Dammit, Delta,” a familiar voice says.

Asher.

I glance at the doorway. The curtain is still swaying. He must have entered just as the Loyalists left.

“What the hell?” Asher straightens, and I’m rewarded with a view of the damage. His nose is bleeding. The front of his dark shirt is wet with blood.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I thought you were someone else.”

He wipes at the blood with the back of his thumb, wincing. “They’re locking down the Barrel. We have to go.”

My stomach drops away.

He grabs my arm, and this time I let him tow me from the seat. Then we’re sprinting for the door as the pub owner yells after us about payment. When we don’t slow, he gets louder, screaming to anyone who will listen about our theft. I just pray everyone is too preoccupied with the lockdown to really listen.

The midday sunlight assaults us when we spill from the Roost. It’s high overhead, an angry orb beating down on the Barrel.

“The mare!” I protest as Asher blows past my horse.

“Too big. Won’t help us where we’re going.”

“I’m going into the wastes. Are you with me?”

He stares, as if I’ve made a ridiculous suggestion.